Auteur: Fred Romano

Fred Romano est écrivain, et vit aux Baléares. Son blog : http://www.fredromano.canalblog.com/ Son cyberoman Edward_Amiga : http://www.terra.es/personal/fromano/ Deux romans, Le film pornographique le moins cher du monde (Pauvert, 2000) et Basque Tanger (Editions Scali, 2006) et un recueil de nouvelles, Contaminations (Pauvert, 2001).

One Day I Dreamt

 

Everything hadn’t turned out exactly the way we wished it would in our childhood, wrapped in daddy’s shameful doodoos. Our fathers survived two World Wars and as many civilian atrocities, and they had to pay the price, in humiliated and stamped on or simply exterminated dreams, and that gave them the runs, and they hided their offspring under their own disgrace. In that shit pile structured with excellent reasons – that would mean death or alienation for hundred thousands, even millions, of Others, Obviously Obnoxious Others because of that O upper case that characterized them- we grew up, feeding ourselves with Other’s corpses and our father’s luxurious leftovers, forgotten and stamped on and broken dreams, that in any case were fantastic fertilizer. Our parents wanted hard to believe in « post-war », because they saw « pre-war » fading away to the shameful forgiveness that was usually reserved for incontinent oldies. They just wanted to protect us, their children, from the vanity of the utopias against which they bore down so hard. But we already were addicted to the bullshit they flatulently farted out, all over the cesspool where we grew up, oh, so quickly, like toxic plants, and all the crap of their broken dreams risen like the biggest turds up from the bottom of the -putrid- Reason.  Our fathers didn’t ignore it all the way, but they tried hard to think for our profit and that way managed to convince themselves that tri nuclear plants, petropharmalogicalchemical industries, food joint trustees, Armstrong waving US flag on the Moon, Economics as an exact science, and over all and better than everything, Television, would save us from the very fantasies that originated them. That way all over shit-faced, we the shit-aholic offspring, developed a constipation with no possible comparison in Mankind’s history. We swallowed the sacrosanct excrement without believing in anything neither shitting even the tightest little turdball. It represented a significant move in the History of Philosophy, another activity tending to Putrefaction, since the horrendous light of the Heiddeger texts, one of the causes of our daddy’s droppings, who then betrayed up to their arses because of the sticky twinges of remorse.

 

Our generation had the great honor to blast off their insides. A lot died, but some happy few could adapt and survive, thanks to phenomenal intestinal fortitude, that drove us to a semi amphibian way of living.  Without a shadow out a doubt, it meant our first grand victory against the very shameful daddy’s doodoos.

 

We were then impotent and fat hippopotamuses, with such thick leathery skin that we couldn’t feel parasite’s bites, and we floated, entrails bloated, into a water trance, all holes wide open in an ecstatic immobility. Tiny fish would pass through and enter our depths and we the constipated hippos would let them eat our solid shit out of our intimacies, and that was an infinite relief for us. We lived in a symbiosis with the Tiny fish, nevertheless conscious of our voluminous superiority over them. A lot of those pathetic Others would die in their hopeless anguish -the transcendental desire of shit we gave them dropping our brown butts into the fetid septic tank of Reason. But the Tiny fish would multiply so quickly that it was nothing to fear regarding the survival of such a helpful species. We the hippopotamuses came to the point of considering that their short life was already included in their obvious fragility, so we felt no preoccupation at snapping shut our sphincters, crushing their delicate little gills. I must say that the population of Tiny fish dramatically increased. As we didn’t shit anymore, the damp superficies became clearer, allowing the Miracle of Life, that euphoria of Tiny Others stirring up the shit in our insides. We weren’t then hippopotamuses neither Tiny fish, just a sort of Frankenstein with various and inseparable heads, with all the constipation’s moral assets, shit hitting the fan, all over bullshit and lies, just shit for brains: « Yes, we’re equal in between species -but we hippos just occupy more space-« , and we included the most unlucky Others in our infinite generosity – let’s say in our bowels. What was representing another clear victory over the shameful daddy’s dodoes because, we knew it by then, our parents won’t have tolerated at any price that Tiny fish entered their great colon and eat up the shit they reserved to their kids. Without a shadow of a doubt, our society had a great movement.

 

We were laid in the dampness of broken wet dreams, our impacted tripe full of Tiny quivering Others, and, eyes wide shut in ecstasy, we didn’t saw the vast craving for the runs into our own children’s eyes. Our kids didn’t want to stay still anymore with that bunch of shit stocked in their belly, and, as our fathers, they didn’t want to share with the Tiny Others. They just wanted to spread the shit all over the septic tank of Reason, because they had already gone through the reams of Three Miles Island and Chernobyl and Amococadis and Seveso and Toulouse and Bhopal and Transmissible Spongiform Encephalopathies and Aids and asbestos schools and radioactive universities, briefly they lived through all the cheering post-war consequences, and surprisingly the kids learnt, even so a lot of them died, affected by strange new diseases that came in time as a miracle solution to overpopulation problems.  Our kids didn’t want to feed the Tiny fish, as far their fat reserves were already melting away, so they just wanted to squeeze a loaf over the top and shit strings and balls of PAOs and stock options, microwaves and profitability, Sylvester Stallion and ecstasy, House Music and antibacteriological deodorant, MTV,DVD, PS2 and VHS as strings of turdballs, briefly whatever could be consumed and shitted away a.s.a.p., an explosive mix of laxative romanticism and collective copra-cide. 

 

In the meanwhile, we the constipated hippos, were suddenly blamed of being Others, and laid by, what got us closer even to the Tiny fish. In order to communicate, we created a very practical and simple language, without syntax’s and that would only admit a binomial of words: « yes » or « no », « true » or « false », « white » or « black », « 0 » or « 1 ». A language for lazy assholes and simple minds, that allowed us to communicate, even with the Tiny fish, in order to persuade them to go on intoxicating themselves with our fabulous offal’s, what was, I must admit, an infinite relief for us.

 

Nevertheless, everything didn’t turn out exactly the way we wished, or even imagined. Because the idiotic language decided to organize itself on its own, in a silly word that afterwards was named « virtual », and with the unique virtue of making more real even our crap universe, that was also based on couples: inside/outside, bevies/buttheads, etc. We howled in ecstasy, entertained by the mathematical orgy of binomials that reproduced themselves into an infinity of mirrors, seducing optical aberration where we transposed the essential of our activities. In that space that didn’t even exists, we were fucking in between cultures, voluptuous acts in extremely slow motion, and that great binary square party was sucking off our sap, in that constant jacking-off of unlife, that unbearable parody of consciousness we played into the Tiny fish’s hands, we the most civilized hippopotamuses in the Hippokind’s History, wallowed in the monumental indecency of our preconceived ideas.

Envoyez Envoyez

One Response to “One Day I Dreamt”

  1. hey great fred, i want to love you for ever mrs.